Glassy Greens
by LazyCreeper
Summary: Auror!drabble.  Harry is hit with a nasty curse and Draco has to save him.  Drarry, drabble, EWE.


**Warnings: **Drarry, EWE, Auror!drabble, lots of mentions of blood, some swearing.

**Author's Note: **This is told in first person (Draco's point of view) and in present-tense, neither one of which I've ever written before. So it might have some mistakes, and it might sound a little awkward, I don't know. But for some reason I liked it and wanted to post it. Also, I'm becoming steadily more addicted to italicizing things and I apologize in advance.

* * *

Harry Potter is dying in my arms.

"OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod," I mutter over and over again, watching Golden Boy turn his head and spit blood onto the stone, his body going cold against my fingertips.

"Don't die on me, Potter, don't die, you're not supposed to die like this—" I mumble, glancing around for something, _any_thing to help me, but of course there isn't anything.

"Malfoy," Harry says, his voice cracked. He coughs some more and sticky blood drips from his chin. "Malfoy. _Mal_foy. Shut up and listen to me."

I shut up and listen to him.

"I've been Rigor Mortised. You need to run up to the library and—" He hacks loudly, an arc of blood mixed with something else spraying all over my brand new suit. Fuck. "—look up the countercurse."

"I bloody well _know _you've been Rigor Mortised, I'm not an imbecile!" I snap. "But I can't just _leave _you here, what if Yaxley comes back and you're just—"

"Dammit, Draco, just _go_!"

The fact that he actually calls me by my surname jars my brain into action. I mercilessly flop him out of my lap, hearing his head thunk against the floor and his glasses skitter somewhere as I dash up the spiralling staircase.

The whole library is in shambles. Bookshelves knocked over, books thrown everywhere, papers littering the floor—papers _I _worked so hard to file. They'd been after something, but what? I don't have time to think about it. Countercurse book, countercurse book…it's impossible to find anything in this mess.

I pick up books at random, and if it's not what I need I sling it over my shoulder, my hands growing shakier every time I pick up the wrong one because Potter is down there _dying_ and I've got to _do _something and it's not happening fast enough. Book after book after book, I throw them with abandon, they're no good.

Finally my hands curl around a vaguely familiar binding. _Defensive Magical Theory _by Wilbert Slinkhard—our fifth year Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook. Maybe it lists something, even the briefest of things might be enough to keep Potter alive that much longer. My heart whams in my ribcage as I crack the cover open, sweaty fingers turning to the index, my eyes scanning the tiny print. Rigor Mortis, Rigor Mortis, Rigor Mortis…oh God, _Rigor Mortis, _page 327. I turn there so quickly some of the pages rip.

I murmur the passage aloud, skimming the unnecessary. "'The Rigor Mortis curse was invented by Winthop Yulby in 1634, when the...causes the victim's muscles to rapidly harden, resulting in loss of blood flow and a constricting of...from the time the curse is inflicted, the victim has approximately seven minutes before the heart ceases circulation of blood.' Oh, God..."

There are four more pages of useless jargon. I don't _need _any of this other rubbish, I just _need _something that can save stupid Potter's life, because I know it's been at least five minutes already and _I'm wasting time. _I skim and skim and skim and—

"'The countercurse, although difficult to perform, is relatively simple in syllable order, and requires precise motions of the wrist to accurately...' I don't care about that, just give me the bloody _spell_!"

On the last paragraph of the section, I finally find what I'm looking for, and I feel a soaring in my chest. I run out of the library, jumping over piles of books as I go, and take the stairs two and three at a time. I crash down by Potter's feet, slamming the book in a seeping pool of Potter's blood with a moist _whup _that echoes all throughout the foyer.

"Still alive, Potter?" I yell.

"Ahhhhffffff—" Potter says. His skin is graying and his fingers are gnarled.

"Good," I say, jamming my wand into the flabby flesh near his heart. "_Satus cruor tepidus_!" I say, reading the spell off the page. The book says something about precise wrist movements, but the book is _wrong _because Potter's fingers relax and his colour returns. He takes a sharp, raspy breath, after which he coughs up a mixture of mucus and yet more blood, on my new trousers this time.

But I don't care about that because I'm putting my hands under his armpits and hoisting him into a sitting position, forcefully patting his back as more stuff is expelled from his lungs.

"Curse lifted?" I ask.

"Yeah," Harry says, voice thick. "Er…thanks." His eyes come to meet mine, unfocused because his glasses have fallen off his face. I pick them up from the puddle of blood we're sitting in, wiping off the lenses with one of the few clean spots left on my shirt. I put them back onto his face, the lenses still smudged with pink. He smiles a tiny smile.

I wrap my arms around him, hard, squeezing him until he says, "Er, Malfoy, you're hurting me a bit," and then I pull away, instead gripping his arms and slamming rough kisses on his cracked lips.

I talk to him between kisses. "I hate you—Potter—you scared me—don't you ever—do that—again—or I'll—kill you—" His glasses dig into my face each time, and it hurts, but I don't care.

"Malfoy—we've got to—find out what Yaxley was—after," Potter manages to choke out.

I pull my lips away, and I can feel Potter's blood smeared all around my mouth. I wipe it away with my sleeve. "The library's destroyed," I say.

"Most likely looking for the resurrection documents," Potter says, breathless. His head slumps forward, but he straightens himself with a jolt. He's exhausted. This would be his _third _near-death experience this week. I don't imagine he can take much more.

"Bed, Potter," I say, getting to my feet, cleaning the mess on the floor away with a muttered _Scourgify_. I grab Potter under the armpits again and hoist him to his feet.

"No, we've got to follow Yaxley before we lose him, he can't have gotten far, we—"

"He could be anywhere in the world by now," I say, shaking my head. "Doubt he'd go anywhere we've listed as Death Eater areas right after he broke into _your _house, Harry," I say, raising my eyebrows at him, hoping that using his surname might make him think a bit more clearly. It doesn't.

"True, but what if he took—"

"The only things he could've nicked from the library are dusty old books and a few tasteful paintings," I say wearily, shaking my head. "All the important papers are hidden in the attic, you know that. _Bed_," I repeat, clamping my hand on his arm and pulling him up the stairs.

"Are you staying tonight?" he asks as I push him through the doorway to his bedroom.

"When do I _not _stay here, Harry?" I say, rolling my eyes, peeling my soiled suit off and throwing it into the hamper, which is more full of my clothes than it is Potter's.

"You _could_ rub my shoulders, Draco, they're a bit sore," Harry says, taking off his own stained clothes and dropping them at his feet. I sigh and magic them into the hamper as he climbs into bed. Messy git.

"No," I say tersely, rummaging through Harry's closet for my pyjamas, knowing damn well I'll be rubbing that stupid prat's shoulders until he falls asleep, like I do every night.

* * *

**End Notes: **For this drabble I completely made up the curse and countercurse - they're not real. :P But the book Draco picks up really is the book they used in fifth year, because I Googled it. Ha.


End file.
